


Smoke and Iron at Three in the Morning

by CreepyKid



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Art, Blood, Character Thoughts, F/M, Follows the Homestuck Intermission, Gang Violence, Homestuck Shipping Olympics, Minor Character Death, Mutilation, Stalking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-20
Updated: 2013-03-20
Packaged: 2017-12-05 22:45:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/728743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CreepyKid/pseuds/CreepyKid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spades Slick and Snowman think of each other during the Felt raid.<br/>Depicted with art as well as text.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smoke and Iron at Three in the Morning

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Round 3 of the Homestuck Shipping Olympics in 2012. It wasn't posted. I kept forgetting to upload it here. I hope I didn't massacre this pairing or the characters.

When the Felt encroached upon the Midnight Crew’s territory and business, you, Spades Slick, felt delightfully obligated to break open a few green skulls and clocks with your Cast Iron Horse Hitcher. It was natural and expected for you to gather your gang and begin an onslaught of destruction onto the Felt mansion. It was just as natural and expected for the Felt to retaliate by attempting to break open a few dark skulls with their own weapons. You had expected to leave a trail of red and green, obliterating the Felt entirely. You even mused that you’d save the boss, Lord English, for last. You had not imagined that the Midnight Crew’s ratio of deaths would equal the Felt’s, leaving every Crew member dead but yourself. You expected better of the Midnight Crew. But you were wrong, and all of your friends were dead.

You had walked into this horribly tacky hellhole with a swagger to your step and a wanted poster of green faces to turn red. You had dispatched your gang with confidence that this Fuck You to the Felt would actually turn out right. The Crew, with the exception of that dumbass Clubs Deuce, was competent enough, certainly strong and talented enough. Each member did their specific job well, and like a well sharpened knife, they could cut through most obstacles. You had a few doubts with your rivals’ time warping abilities taken into consideration. You thought you were home free at one point. Eight out of fifteen of those Felt motherfuckers had spilled their blood. Six of the remaining seven Felt members would join their comrades on death’s doorstep soon. Then the seventh one you couldn’t kill, that bitch, showed up.

The tall succubus dressed in black as dark as her lungs and eye blinding green just sashayed into the middle of a shoot-out to fuck with you. She ridiculed your very existence with her own almost-immortal one, and the she-witch loved every second of it. 

You swore that you’ve even caught sight of her in places she shouldn’t be. Sometimes, when you were planning on new ways to get one over the Felt, you’d catch a smile and a flash of green in a corner of the room. She even haunted your dreams. You’d see her face hovering just above yours. It would be gone in the next moment, but the smell of cigarette smoke lingered in your room. You didn’t talk to anyone about it, not even Droog. You’d just sit down at the piano and play a tune from three in the morning till four.

Her face was actually hovering close to yours now. The nightmarish and the real Snowman even had the same fucking facial expression, smug with a shit-eating grin.

Hold still, Slick. Got something in your eye.

Pretty sure that I would feel it if there was shit stuck in my- Your internal monologue was interrupted by your own pained yelp when she proved herself correct by stabbing your right eye out with her damn cigarette holder. Bitch didn’t even have the decency or class to use an actual instrument meant for stabbing. One thing you knew for sure, Snowman was going to have to wrench her piece of shit cigarette holder out of your lifeless claws to get it back.

In a manner of brief seconds, she proved you wrong again. The broad clearly embodied class. She had just calmly walked out with cigarette smoke trailing from her black lips and the sound of her heels clacking against the floor. Snowman had captivated an entire room and left its occupants speechless in one move.

And in that one move, she had pissed you off. Your Crew knew better than to pity you for your lost eye. They knew that you were going to stab a motherfucker; time shenanigans be damned. So you did.

Everyone was dead. Everyone but you, Lord English, and the bitch had died. You presumed that they did anyways. The Felt mansion and the rest of the town had returned to their original states as just a bunch of dust and rocks. You made this town, but the town went along and rusted without you.

But it left one thing in its wake. Lord English’s secret vault, the prize of the whole mission, was left standing amidst the destruction. It was ironic that the only structure left standing would be the treasure trove, but you didn’t care much for iron outside of a few exceptions. You only liked it in knives, bullets, and the taste of blood.

You damned the consequences when you attempted to pry open the safe with a crowbar. The safe was open, and now, you were here alone. Being alone didn’t bother you; it never did. Things got done when you were alone. 

You would never tell anyone that you’d sort of miss the rest of the crew when the heist was all said and done. A pianist could solo, still produce hauntingly beautiful melodies on a familiar set of keys. But ragtime is more fun with a saxophone, a double bass, and an oboe backing the piano up. If you didn’t think that it would be total bullshit, you’d dig three graves and put flowers-  
No. Fuck that. Droog would make a comment on your choice of floral arrangements. Perhaps, licorice instead? NO. Fuck this. You need to see what’s in that damn safe. You just crossed out the Crews’ pictures with a red ‘X’ just like what you had done with the Felts’ to make things even.

When you entered the vault, you were pleased to see that the green décor did not extend inside it. A dark black spade was illuminated against the gray stone floor by moonlight and a few flickering flames just outside. The engraved marker puzzled you. It was as if the vault was meant for you; it was expected of you to open it. It wasn’t like you weren’t going to. You just lost all of your men and an eye in addition to being caught up in too many time paradoxes to name. You even had the idea of how to open it. You dared for any stupid fucker to waltz in and stop you now.

You raised the Rules for Black Jack card with a flourish, intent on opening the door with the barcode encryption, and on cue, guess who showed up? That huge bitch.

She shot the card dead center through the bar code. The temptress stood in the doorway with her whip in one hand and a still smoking gun in the other. Her outfit even brought that obnoxious color back into your line of vision, as if you hadn’t seen enough of it already. The smirk on her face cemented the package with a big ‘Fuck you, Slick,’ stamp.

You retrieved her piece of shit weapon from your deck of cards and waved it threateningly. Oh, are you looking for this? Well, come and get it, you contemptuous she-witch, you had spat at her. .. In hindsight, you should probably remember to keep your mouth shut and stop giving her ideas. She took her cigarette holder back with an expert toss of her Black Inches, and she took your entire damn arm with it.

The bitch left you bleeding in that cell. You didn’t scream, but you let out a few groans and a whole lot of curses. No matter how much blood you lost, you still had that insatiable hatred coursing through your veins. You wouldn’t ever relieve that itch if you didn’t survive and get out of here. She probably expected for you to die alone and helpless in there. You weren’t going to live up to that expectation.

Besides, you always planned on kicking the bucket when you killed the bitch and settled the score once and for all.

\---

Your name is Snowman, representative of the eight ball in the Felt’s pool, and you do not remember exactly when you picked up your bad habits. Perhaps, it was the death of your husband that led to your heart and lungs turning as stark a shade of black as your carapace. Maybe, it was from the whispers of a white devil that convinced you to hate Spades Slick, formerly Jack Noir.

You used to be the fierce tyrant of Derse with immense power in your fingertips. Your refusal to use that power led to your dear king’s demise and your exile. You didn’t wear the ring because you were too disgusted by the prospect of gaining frog appendages from its power. Jack Noir found out, and you lost everything.

The devil, the very one that you yourself had created, appeared then with an offer. From his bulbous head and nearly illegible text, he spoke of vengeance against Jack Noir and of the force you could use to do it. You accepted his proposal without question.

Your blood now ran cold and royal blue. You could manipulate the fabrics of time and space freely. You were permanently linked to the universe itself; if you died, the frog and everything still inside it went with you. It was ironic that the very thing that disgusted you more than anything was a part of you. You just smiled. You only had one thing left to live for. Break Spades Slick- He thought he was so clever with that name- until he had nothing left to live for either.

You were the sole feminine touch in the Felt, your curves accented by the signature green color. Once One, Itchy, attempted to get a peek under your sharply tailored suit, he found himself at the mercy of your Black Inches instead. He left with red cheeks and an appointment with the tailor. Your immortality and brutality kept the rest of the green men at bay. You could have kept the doctor for company but his smug demeanor matched your own. Your chats with the Seer and the Thief never went as well as you wanted. But the lack of companionship was fine to you. You just wanted one man.

Spades Slick infuriated you. His name left a worse taste in your mouth than the smoke exhaling from it. You wanted to kill him outright; you really did. You couldn’t though. You told yourself that it would be much more satisfying to cut away at him gradually.

And it was. You set fire to his favorite casino yourself and used that flame to light another cigarette for you to enjoy on the ride home. The fact that Slick was going to pay a visit to the manor was sweeter.

He never noticed you whenever you spied on him. Most would have said that you abused your reality bending powers. They would never know how much of a thrill it was to watch your greatest enemy fidget in his sleep and then murmur your name. They wouldn’t know the feeling of their enemy’s pulsating jugular vein just beneath their claw. They would never witness the beautiful sight of that same enemy jolting awake in the middle of the night and screaming.

You left the distinct scent of cigarette smoke as the only evidence you’d been there. 

You'd be back inside the manor by three in the morning. It was traditional for you to gather up your gown and violin at that time. It was the same time that Slick would sit down at the piano bench. You'd stand picturesquely in a world of black and green with bow in hand. He'd run his fingers lightly, lovingly, across the black and white keys. You would both start at the same time and play the same tune, even though you were both miles apart from the other. Three in the morning was the only moment of peace between you two; once the clock struck four, you hated him all over again.  
When the night of his grand scheme of vengeance finally came, you let out a sigh and waited alone in your room for a while. You listened to the shots of gunfire as if they were a part of a grand symphony written just for you. You’d listen to the pained yelps of your comrades. You kept a tally going in your mind. You thought nothing more about those other men; you just wanted Slick.

After you presumed that at least half of the Felt’s numbers had died and had heard a great crescendo of bullets flying, you decided to make your appearance and calmly descended the stairs. The music ended as soon as you rounded the corner with your cigarette holder in hand. All eyes were cast on you.

You glanced at the members present, numbers seven through ten of the Felt versus the four members of the Midnight Crew. How cute, they had even set up objects to hide behind in their little shootout. You didn’t plan on staying for very long; you just wanted a little bit of fun.

You stood in the middle of the warring gangs and turned towards a face with a pair of furious white eyes and a snarling jaw. It made you smile to see how much your presence affected him. His fingers fidgeted a bit as though he was debating on clawing your eyes out or not- Oh, that actually wasn’t so bad of an idea.

Hold still, Slick, you removed your cigarette from its holder, got something in your eye. The sounds of your cigarette holder stabbing into his eye and the cry that followed began the symphony again. You smiled through the smoke as you walked away. You’d retrieve your holder later, but for now, you felt as good as you had expected you would. 

You had taken a walk around the mansion after that. You listened to the sounds of war ringing across time and space as you walked. You walked through pools of blood and stepped over corpses absent mindedly. You paused at one window. Slick was riding his Cast Iron Horse Hitcher like a child throwing a tantrum for no reason beyond the glass. Your gazes crossed briefly. You continued walking to the sound of angry curses thrown into your song.  
But what would have happened if the tune was changed? What would become of the Black Queen and Jack Noir? You laughed at your own stupidity. Your hypothetical idea would never be fruitful. Your hate for each other was instinctual. It was impossible for you to imagine a life with Spades Slick in it without smoke and iron. 

The next time you saw Slick that night, he was about to open Lord English’s vault. You blew his chances of opening the door away by shooting the key. Then you took your weapon back by ripping off his arm with your whip. You closed the door to the vault, locking him effectively inside. 

By leaving him to rot, you thought that you would be the happiest girl alive. Slick had lost his friends, his dignity, and his world. He would die in that vault alone. He’d stain the vault floor crimson. If the blood loss didn’t kill him, then he’d die of starvation and dehydration. Wouldn’t it be funny for him to lap up his own blood in a delusion that it was water? 

Yet, for some reason, you felt as though things weren’t quite finished. Dying now and in that fashion just wasn’t Slick’s way. He defied expectations. He’d return to settle the score, make things even. You’d wait patiently for your inevitable tiebreaker. 

You lit a new cigarette, and when you brought the holder to your lips, you tasted his dried blood. With an exhale of smoke, you faded away. It was almost three in the morning.


End file.
